Chapter 2 - The Woman With No Past
Amelia woke to antiseptic, fluorescent light, and the terrifying sensation that somebody was sitting beside her bed.
Her eyes opened too quickly.
Pain exploded behind her left temple.
She jerked away.
“Easy.”
The voice was low.
Not Raymond.
Memory returned in broken pictures.
Derek’s shoulder moving.
The floor.
Angela screaming.
The bell above the door.
A man in black entering.
Vincent Castellano.
Amelia opened her eyes fully.
Vincent sat in a chair six feet away.
Not beside her.
That distance mattered.
He had removed his jacket and loosened his tie. A paper cup of coffee rested untouched near his hand.
“You’re in Methodist Hospital,” he said. “You have a concussion. No skull fracture.”
Amelia swallowed.
“What time?”
“Almost two.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes.”
She pushed herself higher.
Vincent did not move to help until she reached for the bed rail and winced.
Even then he stopped.
“May I?”
The question startled her.
She nodded.
He adjusted the pillow behind her and immediately stepped back.
Amelia studied him.
Everyone in Brooklyn knew the Castellano name.
Some pretended they did not.
The family owned restaurants, construction companies, warehouses, trucking firms, and half a dozen properties that had supposedly become legitimate twenty years ago.
Supposedly.
Angela had once told her not to ask questions about Vincent.
Amelia had not.
Questions invited answers.
Answers created relationships.
Relationships made leaving harder.
“Where’s Angela?”
“Downstairs arguing with a vending machine.”
Despite herself, Amelia smiled.
Vincent watched the smile disappear almost immediately.
“Derek was arrested.”
Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
“He’ll get out.”
“Probably.”
The calmness of the answer irritated her.
“You say that like it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
“Then why are you so calm?”
“Because shouting will not change his bail hearing.”
Amelia looked toward the window.
Rain streaked the glass.
“Where are his friends?”
“Nikki Alvarez gave a statement. The other man left before police finished taking names.”
Her heart beat faster.
“What did Nikki say?”
“That Derek was paid to locate you.”
Amelia’s eyes closed.
There it was.
Three years reduced to a sentence.
Vincent continued carefully.
“She said Raymond Fletcher gave him your photograph.”
Amelia turned away.
“You know Raymond?”
“I know of him.”
“That means yes.”
“It means our paths crossed.”
“How?”
“Business.”
She laughed without humor.
“With people like you, that word can mean anything.”
Vincent accepted the insult.
“What does Raymond want from you?”
“Nothing.”
“That isn’t believable.”
“Then don’t believe it.”
He leaned back.
“I am not interrogating you.”
“It sounds like one.”
“If I were interrogating you, you would know.”
The words were not a threat.
That somehow made them worse.
Amelia looked directly at him.
“Why are you here?”
“Because you were injured in my restaurant.”
“Your employees get hospital visits from the owner?”
“No.”
“Then why me?”
He took a moment before answering.
“When you woke on the diner floor, you said Raymond found you.”
Amelia’s stomach tightened.
“I don’t remember.”
“I believe you do.”
“Then we’re done.”
She reached toward the call button.
Vincent stood.
“Your apartment was broken into.”
Her hand stopped.
“What?”
“Forty minutes ago.”
Everything inside her went cold.
“How do you know?”
“One of my men drove Angela home. She asked him to stop by your building for clothes. Your front door was open.”
Amelia tore the blanket aside.
“I need to leave.”
“No.”
Her head snapped toward him.
Vincent immediately corrected himself.
“You should not leave until the doctor discharges you.”
She stared.
He understood exactly what had happened.
For one ugly second, “no” had sounded like Raymond.
Vincent exhaled.
“That came out wrong.”
“You think?”
“Yes.”
He stepped farther from the bed.
“The decision is yours.”
Amelia lowered her feet to the floor anyway.
The room tilted.
She grabbed the mattress.
Vincent moved instinctively, then stopped before touching her.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You almost fell.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He clenched his jaw.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
Amelia hated that his restraint affected her more than aggression would have.
“Was anything taken?”
“We don’t know.”
“I need my phone.”
Vincent picked it up from the bedside cabinet and placed it within her reach.
She checked missed calls.
Angela.
Tony.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Then a text.
No sender identification.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED GONE.
Her breath stopped.
Vincent saw her face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Amelia.”
She turned the phone over.
His expression hardened, but he did not demand it.
The door opened.
Angela entered carrying crackers, a plastic bag, and enough anger for the entire hospital.
“Oh, thank God.”
She rushed to Amelia and hugged her carefully.
“You scared ten years off my life.”
“I’m okay.”
“You have a concussion.”
“That’s technically okay.”
Angela pulled back.
“Do you know that lunatic tried to tell police you attacked him?”
Amelia laughed weakly.
“With what? The coffee pot?”
“Apparently.”
Angela turned toward Vincent.
“You should have hit him harder.”
“Angela.”
“What?”
Vincent almost smiled.
Then Marco appeared at the door.
His face told Vincent something was wrong.
Vincent stepped into the hallway.
Amelia could hear only fragments.
“…not burglary…”
“…bedroom untouched…”
“…kitchen wall…”
Then Vincent looked through the doorway at her.
Amelia knew.
She stood.
This time the dizziness could not stop her.
“What did they find?”
Vincent did not answer immediately.
“Tell me.”
Marco looked at him.
Vincent said, “Her apartment wasn’t robbed.”
Amelia’s mouth went dry.
“What do you mean?”
“They searched it.”
“For what?”
“I was hoping you would tell us.”
She gripped the bed rail.
In her mind she saw Raymond three years ago.
His shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His hand closing over her wrist.
The laptop open on the dining table.
Numbers she had never been meant to see.
Accounts.
Names.
Payments.
One name above the others.
S. CASTELLANO.
Vincent watched recognition pass over her face.
“What did you take from him?”
“I didn’t take money.”
“I didn’t ask about money.”
That was when she realized her mistake.
Angela touched her arm.
“Sweetheart?”
Amelia looked between them.
There had never been a good time to tell anyone.
The police had been impossible because Raymond knew police officers.
Lawyers were impossible because Raymond worked for lawyers.
Friends were impossible because he knew her friends.
So Amelia had done the only thing she understood.
She disappeared.
“I copied files,” she whispered.
Vincent became completely still.
“What kind of files?”
“Financial records.”
“Raymond’s?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not telling you.”
“If people are breaking into your home—”
“No.”
Vincent stopped.
Amelia looked at him.
“You want to know why I don’t trust you?”
“I can guess.”
“Raymond had files about your family.”
Marco swore softly.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“What files?”
“Payments. Companies. Names.”
“Mine?”
“I don’t know.”
“You saw the Castellano name.”
It was not a question.
Amelia nodded.
The room seemed to shrink.
Vincent asked, “Which Castellano?”
“I only remember an initial.”
“What initial?”
Amelia hesitated.
“S.”
Marco and Vincent exchanged a look.
“What?” Amelia demanded.
Vincent said nothing.
“What does S mean?”
“Possibly nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide what I can handle.”
The accusation landed.
Vincent looked at her for a long moment.
Then he said, “My uncle’s name is Salvatore.”
Amelia’s pulse jumped.
“Is he dangerous?”
Marco gave a humorless laugh.
Vincent did not.
“Yes.”
For the first time since waking, Amelia wanted to lie down again.
Raymond.
Derek.
A break-in.
And now a Castellano.
“What happens if Raymond finds those files?”
Vincent asked.
“He destroys them.”
“And if Salvatore finds them?”
Amelia looked at him.
“I don’t know.”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“I do.”
The hospital corridor suddenly seemed very far away.
Amelia whispered, “What would he do?”
Vincent looked toward Marco.
Then back at her.
“He would destroy whoever had seen them.”
A cold wave traveled through Amelia.
Angela squeezed her hand.
Vincent moved toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To make sure nobody comes through that hallway unless you want them to.”
“I didn’t ask for protection.”
“No.”
He paused.
“I’m not asking you to trust me either.”
Amelia stared at him.
“Then what are you asking?”
“For twenty-four hours.”
“For what?”
“To stay alive long enough to decide what you want to do next.”
He left.
Amelia looked toward the rain-covered window.
Three years earlier, she had escaped Raymond Fletcher with one duffel bag.
She had changed her phone number.
Her hair.
Her address.
Her job.
Her entire life.
But she had kept one thing from that night.
A tiny encrypted drive.
And nobody—not Raymond, not Vincent, not Salvatore Castellano—knew where it was.
At least she had believed that until her phone buzzed again.
Another unknown message.
This one contained a photograph.
Amelia stared at it.
A rusted gray locker.
Number 214.
Her breath disappeared.
The bus terminal locker where she had hidden the drive three years earlier.
May you like
Below the photograph were four words.
WE KNOW WHERE IT IS.
